Robert Thompson examines Dietrich Bonhoeffer’s time in London and the making of a modern martyr.
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On my daily commute into work, I pass a small church. Right by the railway line, it is a post-war build, having replaced an earlier church that was destroyed by German bombing in the Blitz. The name stands out: Dietrich-Bonhoeffer-Kirche.
After crossing London, I arrive at my office at a rather different kind of church building. Here, at the entrance to Westminster Abbey, the name greets me again. Above the Great West Door of the church there are ten statues of men and women, their names underneath. One, bespectacled and dressed in the robes of a pastor, an open book in his right hand and his other striking a pose as if in the middle of a sermon point, is Dietrich Bonhoeffer.
Dietrich Bonhoeffer was born in 1906 in what was then Breslau in Germany, to an intellectual, middle-class family. After theological studies at the Universities of Tübingen and Berlin, he first served a church in Barcelona and then travelled even further, to Union Theological Seminary in New York.
In 1933 – the same year that Adolf Hitler became Chancellor of Germany – Bonhoeffer moved to London where he became pastor to two German-speaking churches, including the congregation of that little suburban church I pass every day on my way to the Abbey. Before the war it looked very different, its steeple rising high above the tree-lined streets.
After 2 years in London, Bonhoeffer returned to his native Germany. There, he increasingly involved himself with the opposition movement to the Nazi regime. He was eventually arrested in 1943 for his part in ‘Operation Seven’, a plan to help Jews escape Germany. He was passed between several prisons. In July 1944 an attempt was made on Hitler’s life.
But the plot failed, and the organisers were rounded up. Bonhoeffer was discovered to be a close associate of many involved in the assassination conspiracy. He was sent to concentration camps, first in February 1945 to Buchenwald, and then in April to Flossenbürg. There, on 9th April, just a few weeks before the end of the war, he was executed.
As the title of a new film – Pastor, Assassin, Spy – suggests, Bonhoeffer is often presented in uncomplicated terms. He was, simply, a hero. He resisted Nazi evil and sacrificed himself for a greater cause. His extensive writings have since inspired generations of Christians in pursuit of justice. In 1998 he was therefore an understandable choice for the project initiated by Antony Harvey, a Canon of Westminster.
Installed at the Abbey, amongst ten ‘modern martyrs’, Bonhoeffer was set in stone as representative of Christians from around the world and different church traditions who, in the violence and turmoil of the 20th century, gave up their lives for their faith.
Yet, in his own lifetime, Bonhoeffer was relatively unknown. He was a young man still in the early years of his ministry. There were far better-known church leaders and theologians within the opposition to the Nazis, such as Martin Niemöller or Karl Barth. For his own part, Bonhoeffer was deeply self-reflective, often questioning what difference he had made. Looking back from prison he wrote: ‘We have been silent witnesses of evil deeds… are we still of any use?’
Bonhoeffer was more interesting than a simplistic, heroic image allows for. He was a person who faced everyday dilemmas and wrestled with difficult choices. As the historian Keith Clements wrote, though Bonhoeffer’s statue stands at the Abbey, ‘he actually walked below, on the streets of London’.
So what can Bonhoeffer’s time in London teach us about him? How can his story inform our own response to challenging times?
Bonhoeffer arrived in London in October 1933 to begin work as pastor to the suburban, middle-class congregation of the German Church in Sydenham and the less affluent community at St Paul’s, Aldgate in the East End. In his first letters home he wrote about some of the challenges of adapting to life in England – London was beset by fog, his house was damp and bothered by mice, and there was turkey for Christmas dinner, not the goose or duck that formed the traditional centrepiece of German festivities. But London was not just strange customs and bad climate. It was also a training ground for Bonhoeffer’s future work.
As a preacher, Bonhoeffer’s stint in London evidenced his growing resistance to the Nazi regime; but he was also a pastor to a community. The minute-books for church meetings during Bonhoeffer’s tenure reveal glimpses of how he organised opportunities for reflection and renewal for the people under his care. Though events in Germany were never far from his mind, he had immediate duties in London.
He organised the Sunday School, nativity plays and a performance of Brahms’ Requiem. He conducted baptisms, weddings and funerals. A church outing to Epping Forest, north-east of London, inspired a letter to his grandmother in which he marvelled at the bluebells, a very English flower but scarce in Germany. Though he had struggled with the London climate in winter, he was finding it ‘all the more beautiful in spring’.
These were not as publicly urgent as the crisis of Nazism but, in his context, they were no less deserving of his attention. It is probable that these moments were crucial in fuelling his own emerging discipleship, nurturing a sense of how to serve a community and a vocation from the ground up.
Yet from the moment he arrived, Bonhoeffer felt torn between his responsibility to his London congregations on the one hand and his concern for events in Germany on the other. He worked hard to do what he could from England. A few weeks after arriving, he wrote to the Bishop of Chichester, George Bell, the Church of England’s senior leader most vocal in scrutinising the Nazi regime. ‘We must not leave alone’, he said, ‘those men who fight – humanly spoken – an almost hopeless struggle’.
Through George Bell, Bonhoeffer pleaded with the global ecumenical church movement not to offer their support to pro-Nazi Protestant churches. He wrote to contacts in seminaries in the UK and the US asking them to sponsor theological students who, because of their Jewish heritage or outspoken politics, could not safely remain in Germany. In his own home, he hosted friends who had lost their positions and fled Germany because they had Jewish family members.
Through letter-writing, wider lobbying, and everyday support for refugees, Bonhoeffer kept himself busy. The culmination of this work was when, in November 1934, he led the nine German congregations in England in their resolution to be part of the Confessing Church, a denomination opposed to the Nazification of German Protestant churches.
His question, later asked in prison, echoes down the decades and resonates in our own challenging times: ‘are we still of any use?’ Many, of varied ideological persuasions, have only understood Bonhoeffer’s mission on a superficial level. The potential extent of his involvement in the assassination attempt on Hitler is one issue political statements often refer back to – but it can be misleading to portray Bonhoeffer simply as a heroic activist for a cause.
Christian discipleship, any life of faith, is something different – and service to a wider, diverse community is often more complicated. It involves difficult choices, the capacity to acknowledge frailties and mistakes, and always a hope to be playing one’s part.
Bonhoeffer’s experiences can, in this way, still inform those who today face the ethical challenges of making a difference through public service. Westminster Abbey Institute organises opportunities for those who work around Parliament Square, and beyond, to step back from the pressures of public life and to reconnect to a vocation to service.
It is significant that participants in these conversations, like every passer-by and visitor, are first greeted at the Abbey by the modern martyrs, and by Dietrich Bonhoeffer – a reminder that every life requires degrees of sacrifice and of courage.
In his sermon at the installation of the Modern Martyrs in 1998, Canon Antony Harvey reflected on the concept of ‘witnessing’. He noted that participants in the service included family and friends of the ten martyrs.
Dietrich Bethge, godson of Bonhoeffer, played JS Bach on the cello. Bonhoeffer’s niece, the daughter of his twin sister Sabine, told Canon Harvey that her mother, who lived in London as a refugee from 1938 to 1951, ‘still remembers Westminster Abbey very well’. Yet the witness of the martyrs, Harvey said, is ‘common property’ – not just the duty of those who remember the martyrs personally, but the responsibility of all those who feel a commitment to respond to their stories of sacrifice.
Bonhoeffer’s time in London reveals someone increasingly concerned for the dangers that lay in the political reality of his generation. It also tells of a preacher and emerging writer searching for the words to express a faithful response.
Most importantly, perhaps, Bonhoeffer’s London years encouraged him in exercising a sense of service, focused on the everyday things which are often hard, and often overlooked, but which make the most difference to others: meals, hospitality, encounters, journeys and friendship. Nothing was more important, he preached in London, than ‘a life lived in love’.
This commitment was something for which Bonhoeffer’s time here had prepared him. In his last letter from London, he made a final plea for funds to help refugees from Nazi Germany. Perhaps this is what the bespectacled clergyman continues to witness, from his plinth at Westminster Abbey – a reminder, as Bonhoeffer put it to a friend, quoting Proverbs, to set aside fear and reserve and to ‘speak out for those who cannot speak’.
Robert Thompson is Deputy Director for Public Programmes at Westminster Abbey Institute. His book, After Belsen: Christian Encounters with Holocaust Survivors, will be published in 2026 by Cornell University Press.
It’s a privilege to live and work here – the Abbey really is the heart of the country and its history.
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